


My Life as an Oyster

by Brumeier



Category: Alice (2009)
Genre: Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Mental Instability, POV First Person, Rage, Self-Harm, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2015-05-01
Packaged: 2018-03-26 14:06:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3853447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brumeier/pseuds/Brumeier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a one shot that helped me answer the question of what happens to the Oysters when they're drained.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Life as an Oyster

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to fanfic.net on 11/9/10. **Warning:** No happy ending on this one, folks.

It’s Tuesday, and I’m supposed to meet Tim for coffee at that little bistro we like downtown. I think tonight is the night we make our relationship exclusive. My mother always says that when you meet the right guy you just know. Well, I know. Tim is absolutely the one, the last guy I’ll ever date. I’m pretty sure he feels the same way, but guys are a lot slower to notice these things.

As I pass by an alley, I hear someone call for help. I pause, and listen, and it comes again. A weak plea for assistance coming from somewhere in the alley. It’s probably a homeless person. Even if it’s not, you just don’t run down an alley in the city, not unless you want to get mugged or worse. 

I start to move away, but the voice comes again and now it’s calling for its mommy. Damn. I can’t leave some little kid down there! Besides, the sidewalks are teeming with people, and I can yell pretty loud. Feeling only slightly anxious I take a few steps into the alley.

“Hello?” I call. There’s no answer now. I take a few more steps, and suddenly I get the feeling I’ve crossed over into another place. The street sounds are oddly muffled and I start to think maybe this kid can fend for itself. Or I could always notify a cop or something. Let them check it out. Besides, I don’t want to be late for Tim.

I turn to go but a hand grabs my arm. Before I can even draw a breath to scream, something is sprayed in my face. It makes me tired, so very tired, and I’m barely aware of being dragged backwards before I fall asleep.

*o*o*o*

I wake up, feeling groggy and muddle-headed. I wonder if I’m getting a cold. I look around, wondering where I am and how I got there. It’s a large room, very white, and full of noise. There are women dancing in flashy dresses, and people standing around tables. I’m one of them.

There’s a roulette wheel in front of me, and as I watch it go round I get a bit dizzy. A tiny part of me is alarmed and anxious, but the rest of me feels heavy and disinterested. My legs hurt, but when I try to move them nothing happens; that makes me a bit more anxious.

“What is this?” I ask, my voice weak. I look at the woman who is spinning the wheel. She’s wearing a dress with diamonds down the front, and some kind of sparkly red cap on her head. She picks up a red phone and talks into it.

“I’ve got a live one.”

I wonder what that means. I try to remember how I got here, but find that I can’t even remember my own name. That must be bad, surely, but I can’t seem to work up much emotion over it.

A man in a black suit is suddenly standing next to me, smiling in a very pleasant way. He presses a button on a little black box, and suddenly my legs are working again. They’re sore and tingly, and I wince as I move them.

“Come with me, ma’am,” he says. He leads me out of this noisy white room and into a kind of waiting room, lined with chairs and blessedly quiet. Maybe in here I can think more clearly, and remember my name. It seems important to know that. I take a seat on a red plastic chair, across from another woman. She’s wearing jeans and a big pink sweater. I look down at myself, not even sure what I’m wearing, and see a long black skirt and a blue silk shirt.

“Do you know why you’re here?” the other woman asks. Her eyes are a bit wild, and I don’t care for the way she stares at me.

“No.”

“I can’t remember anything,” she says, clearly panicked. “Why can’t I remember anything?”

“I think I have the flu,” I say. I certainly feel like I do. My joints are stiff and achy, and that cottony feeling won’t leave my head. It’s hard to think around it. Although now, out of the blue, I suddenly have a craving for coffee. Do I even drink coffee?

“Right this way, ladies,” the cheerful man in the black suit says, appearing at a doorway. The other woman seems a bit reluctant, but eventually she follows. We are taken through several rooms and down a hallway, and all around us are men in black suits or men wearing clear plastic coats. I wonder if this is unusual.

The man in the black suit takes us into another room, and it is some kind of lab. Lots of the plastic coats in here, and machinery of all kinds. The other woman and I sit down on tall stools and wait. No-one seems to pay us any attention. And then a man comes over. He’s wearing a yellow leather jumpsuit. He looks annoyed.

“Do you know your name?” he asks. I shake my head.

“I think it’s Anne,” the other woman says. Her hands are clenched so tightly together her knuckles are white. “Or Amy.”

The man in yellow sprays something in her face and her head drops down. I feel a moment of alarm, but can see that she’s still breathing. And then he’s in front of me.

“Do you know your name?”

I shake my head again. “No. But I really want some coffee.”

The man just rolls his eyes, and then I am sprayed in the face as well.

*o*o*o*

I’m standing on the sidewalk. There are people moving around me, and some of them bump me, but I don’t care. I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know where I am at all. But I feel…nothing. My body feels hollow. I can’t think of anything to do, so I just stand there. And wait.

“Is everything all right, miss?” someone asks me. It’s a man in a uniform, and I feel like I should know what that means. But I don’t. And so I say nothing.

“Miss? Is there someone I can call for you?”

The man puts his hand on my arm and pulls at me. I’m not feeling quite so hollow now. I feel rage, filling me like a red tide. I pull my arm out of his grip and turn on him, using my hands and my nails to drive him back. I hear people around me gasping, and then there are more hands on me.

I scream wordlessly, trying to break free but there are too many hands and I’m not strong enough. I want to hurt someone, make them bleed. I embrace these violent feelings, because it’s better than being hollow. But I can do nothing. Suddenly I’m lying on my stomach on the sidewalk, my hands pulled up behind me and secured somehow.

The man in the uniform looks surprised, and I can see scratch marks on his cheek. I put them there, and my rage howls triumphantly. I want to do more. Instead I am shoved into the back of a car and driven away. I bang my shoulder against the door, my head against the metal grating the keeps me from getting to the man in the uniform. Soon blood is running into my eyes, but I don’t care.

I don’t know how much time I spend snarling and screaming and banging, but suddenly we’ve stopped and I’m being dragged from the car. A man in a white coat is waiting, and he sticks a needle in my arm. I scream as the rage is slowly drained away, leaving me hollow once more.

*o*o*o*

A man comes to see me today. His eyes are red and weepy, but there is no familiarity for me in his face. I sit in my chair in the room with the green walls, watching the other people shuffle around in their thin robes and slippers. I don’t like getting visitors; all they do is cry and howl at me.

“Steph? Stephie? It’s me. Tim.”

I stare at the man. The names mean nothing to me, though I know that Steph is me. Enough people have called me that, so I know. But it means nothing. I turn my head away, uninterested in this man or his sadness. 

He says nothing more, this Tim, just sits in the chair next to me and watches me. I know how I look. Stringy brown hair, a gaunt face, scratches I have inflicted on myself when my meds get too low. I might have been pretty once. Some of my other visitors have said so.

Eventually the man leaves, and I am alone. But I don’t care. I am always alone. I don’t even have my memories to warm me. I’m hollow, from top to bottom. And the meds mostly keep the rage away, so I can’t even have that. I will spend my day sitting here, watching the others, and then I will go to bed and sleep dreamlessly.

They tell me I was a real person once, with hopes and dreams and a productive life. I don’t remember any of that. I don’t remember anything.

But I really want a cup of coffee.

**Author's Note:**

>  **AN:** Okay, this is a downer, I know. But it got lodged in my brain and I had to write it. Because I always wondered – what happens to the Oysters when they’ve been drained dry?


End file.
